Page 67 of Auctioned Innocence
“Twenty-five.” Dante’s voice is steady, giving nothing away, but I can see his free hand clenched into a fist beneath the table.
My heart pounds so hard I’m sure everyone in the room must hear it, the sound echoing in my ears like thunder.
Twenty-fivemilliondollars.
More money than most people see in a lifetime, being casually tossed around to determine who owns me.
Viktor is still whispering to his neighbors, his voice too low for me to hear but his intent clear.
Whatever he’s saying is spreading through the room like wildfire, no longer the slow poison from earlier.
More people turning to stare at Dante.
Security guards shifting position.
“Thirty million,” the Russian says silkily. “And a question for my fellow bidder—how long did you really serve in St. Petersburg,Dmitri?”
The room goes very still.
12
DANTE
Iwatch each girl be led to slaughter, memorizing faces, building my rage into a weapon.
Jessica—God, she looks like a senior inhigh school—stumbles as they guide her onto the platform.
Her terror is palpable even from my seat in the back—the way her hands shake, how she keeps looking toward the exits like a trapped animal.
I look at her buyer’s face—a tech mogul from San Francisco named Harrison Webb who smiles as he raises his paddle like he’s bidding on a vintage car. Webb’s company donated millions to children’s charities last year.
The irony would be laughable if it weren’t so sickening.
Madame Rouge’s voice drones on. “Sold for 3.2 million to Mr. Webb.” Applause ripples through the room—actual fuckingapplausefor the purchase of a human being. Webb looks pleased with his acquisition, already pulling out his phone to make arrangements.
Behind him, a woman in diamonds leans over to congratulate him like he’s just bought a prized racehorse.
“Excellent choice, Harrison,” she purrs. “So young, so trainable. You’ll have years of enjoyment.”
The casual nature of their discussion makes bile rise in my throat. These aren’t criminals operating in shadows—they’re society’s elite, treating human trafficking like a wine auction.
Next to me, Viktor hasn’t stopped smirking since our confrontation this morning—when he’d interrupted my precious few minutes with Sofia, his suspicious eyes taking in our position by the window, the way her dress had been slightly disheveled, the flush on her cheeks that had nothing to do with embarrassment and everything to do with hope.
“Quite thorough in your inspection, Volkov,” Viktor had drawled, his gaze lingering on Sofia’s face with predatory interest. “One might think you know the merchandise personally.”
I’d forced Dmitri’s cold laugh, stepping away from Sofia though every instinct screamed to stay close. “In my business, attention to detail means profit.”
“Indeed.” Viktor had circled us like a shark, noting how Sofia’s breathing had changed when I touched her shoulder—not with fear, but with recognition. “And what business is that, exactly? Your file was…remarkably sparse.”
That should have been my first warning. Viktor had done his homework, found the gaps in my cover identity. But I’d been too focused on Sofia, on the way she’d leaned into my touch for just a moment before catching herself.
As Jessica stumbles off the stage, tears streaming down her face, the room buzzes with excited chatter. I catch fragments of conversation.
“Did you see how she trembled? Exquisite fear response…”
“Webb always goes for the youngest. Claims they adapt better to training…”
“My compound in Dubai could use fresh entertainment…”
